April 3, 2000, 12:00 am
© Billy Corgan
without focus, without generation, without peer...come whither winters too often seen ...felt in devotion, willing in it's uncertainty...cry aloud yes! children to a child ...a crown glorious for seeing and naysing, soothsaying into prophecy in measured mercury time...this is our moment, our world, this is our church, our children, our dominion as yet undisclosed, as yet unclaimed...the universe is ours reduced to tiny portraiture... with love and fire and desire and innocence to reckon judgement upon us all...in this duality until we are truly free...this role cast and agreed upon, the child took it's hand...to know no other except in one's heart is to walk forward into oblivion...raised from sleep to be beaten, moved to non-tears from an implied violence that hung in the air at all hours...these terrors and troubles will make you he was told but somehow they continue to break him...a smile is always the great eraser, and the dreams of those future smiles and miles allowed a secret garden to grow,however sad true it all became...it never was you can say, but it was...and it never will be they can say, but it will...something always gets lost along the way...in translation, in memory, in vision, but that is just how it is...so to peer strong into the faces one must see their own face, to wonder reflection and not judge, but this too is impossible...for the accused will one day stand as the accuser...the cord snakes between the legs, one fist raised in power, the other fist raised in solidarity, this is the universal vision of the movement...I used to be a little boy so old in my shoes...for every face slap that imprinted itself as tattoo under my skin, every indignity that scarred itself upon my broken heart, walks with me as ghost and conscience...a boy, a zero, a hero, a goat, a ghost frozen glass, broken, this is all you need to know...the codex every moment in this war without end, the attrition constant, but the victories oh so sweet and pure...in this we drink from mountain springs and let the grand old sun soak us old...to curse one's very existence is a kind of power, especially if you can decide to make the best of that hate, to fuel that anger with the necessity of resignation and purpose...to cloak your pain and fear in the language of sound, the poetry of devotion...a child draws the perfect house with the perfect parents and the perfect hot rod car and the perfect dog, unwittingly signing into a contract bound to be broken...the choices came before all he believed, but somehow the fuzzy glow of intuition didn't seem to cover the tracks of this particular beast...glass disintegrates it all for your entertainment, his purpose to be the atom bomb unsustained and smiling that perfect smile...from the first cord came shiver and from the last cord will come peace...it is a game to be played viciously, so change the names and make up a few new verbs and there you go...this child was struck and a decision made to never never cry again...in this stupid land of the frozen ideal, WHO AND WHERE ARE THEY NOW?? the wooden idols of persecution in the glory of helpless and unending resurrection...who will be there upon your deathbed hour to hold your hand and wipe your brow...who will cast the last stone upon you, will it be the same demons, perpetrators and eviserators from long to haunt and decimate...all martyrs are dead and there going to stay that way...wave after wave of fury crossing the bow till there is little more than charred husks and winking sighs...no more to behold, no more to see, no more...the universe was contracting as quickly as it had been set into expanding malice...the first blow struck revolution, the last bell resonant silence...to match the eyes and the doll faces of the perfect parents with the perfect teeth smiling upon the perfect children. long live rock!!!! What does an outsider stand for if they stand cooly on the inside...can you exist inside and outside simultaneously? or must our heroes forever be on the outside looking in? to prove what? and to whom? a broken ideal for which no rewards are given but grudging respect...the spirit breaks but the will is strong...as soft white light caressed their faces they knew that all was good and all would be forgiven, and that their echo would ring forever on and on...in dull cascades and numb electric parades, the true essence would distill and pervert, becoming an unrecognizable new art in it's distortion...a boy holds his guitar in teenage arms and he is power...a man holds aloft a broken guitar and he is shattered... who will pick up the pieces this time? only God knows the true truth...from child to children passed above heads and hearts, beseeched to know and keep knowing...the revolution is never over, it is just beginning...funny how this revolution was televised and everybody got bored and changed the channel to what? chattering mannequins on angel dust and power prayer...whither winters past but we live on and on and on...again and again we are in cracks and rust and swinging screen doors, never to be forgotten...are you tired yet????